She was sitting alone in the large drawing-room, at one of the open windows overlooking the park. She wore a very simple, smooth, dark dress. It struck him how young she looked; and he reflected that she was younger than the duchess. An aureole of delicate purity seemed to quiver around her tall, slender form like an atmosphere of light and gave her a distinction which other women did not possess. She smiled to him; and he came up slowly and kissed her hand. She had not yet seen him that day; she took his head between her cool, slim hands and kissed him. He sat down on a low chair by her side. Then she passed her hand over his forehead: "What's the matter?" she asked. He looked at her and said there was nothing particular. She suspected nothing further; this was not the first time he brought her a clouded forehead. She stroked it once more: "I promised papa to have a serious talk with you," she said. He looked up at her. "He thought it better that I should talk to you, because it was his idea that I could do so more easily. For the rest, he is very pleased with you, my boy, and rejoices to find that you have such a clear judgement, sometimes, upon various political questions." This opinion of his father's surprised him. "And about what did you promise to talk to me?" "About something very, very important," she said, with a gentle smile. "About your marriage, Othomar." "My marriage?..." "Yes, my boy.... You will soon be twenty-two. Papa married much later in life, but he had many brothers. They are dead. Uncle Xaverius is in his monastery. And we--papa and I--are not ever likely to have any more children, Othomar." She put her arms about him and drew him to her. She whispered: "We have no one but you, my boy, and our little Berengar. And ... papa therefore thinks that you ought to marry. We want an hereditary prince, a Count of Lycilia...." His eyes became moist; he laid his head against her: "Two to become emperor? Berengar, if I should be gone before him: is not that enough, mamma?" She smilingly shook her head in denial. No, that was not certainty enough for the house of Czyrkiski-Xanantria. "Mamma," he said, gently, "when sociologists speak of the social question, they deplore that so many children are born among the proletariate and they even hold the poor parents, who have nothing else but their love, responsible for the greater social misery which they cause through those children. Does not this reproach really affect us also? Or do you think an emperor so happy?" Her brow became overcast. "You are in one of your gloomy moods, Othomar. For God's sake, my boy, do not give way to them. Do not philosophize so much; accept life as it has been given to you. That is the only way in which to bear it. Do not reflect whether you will be happy, when you are emperor, but accept the fact that you must become emperor in your turn." "Very well, for myself: but why children, mamma?"